Glory Days
by Nora Winters
Summary: If Stanley's right, it's the story of the century. Could they really be alive after all this time?


**Glory Days**

Stanley Blinker contemplated his surroundings. The bar before him was polished wood. Light entering through the stained-glass windows highlighted the pastoral scene on the painting behind the bottles. The floor was swept, the brass fixings gleamed. The place smelled fresh and clean. He sighed and sipped the beer before him. He had to make it last, after all, the way things were going this was probably his last assignment.

He'd had such great plans. He'd begged to be allowed to cover the war in Europe, but no. His boss had laughed at him. "Go west. Get tales of the wild outlaws and desperadoes that reside there or don't come back," old Horace Hartley had ordered. Heartless Hartley the staff called him. And that was a good name for him Stanley decided. How was he supposed to gather new tales of derring-do in this boring, totally banal town? There was no wild west anymore and hadn't been for decades. He might as well be back in Ohio. His ears registered the cacophony of noise from the wagons, the old carriages, and automobiles he had seen driving past as he entered the saloon.

Old time saloon, right. He shook his head. There were no poker games, no saloon gals, just men in business suits with stiff collars sitting at the tables talking quietly – not a gunslinger in sight, not even a cowboy. Stanley looked down the bar at Jem, the bartender – son of the owner and his only friend in this righteous town. Jem had told him that to compete with the pharmacy across the street his pa was planning to add a room where the ladies could sit and drink coffee and sodas along with the men. Women in a saloon! Respectable ones! And his boss wanted him to write about the wild west. He took a deep, despondent gulp and turned to watch the two men playing darts near his end of the bar.

They were old but seemed pretty spry, dressed nicely, but not bothering with stiff business clothes. As he watched, the white-haired man threw his third bullseye. He turned to his companion, blue eyes twinkling. "Well, that does it. Best three out of five. You're payin' for tomorrow's drinks."

His companion laughed. "I guess you still have dead aim. Hard to believe it after all these years."

The first man chuckled then sobered. "I may still have my aim, but the reflexes are a might slower. Good thing they outlawed guns here, or I'd still be wearin' my fate on my hip."

His companion nodded. He smiled, deep dimples appearing in his lined face. "Surprising, we lasted this long, isn't it?" He pulled a battered watch out of his pocket. "Time to go, supper will be waiting."

As the two men paid up and walked out to the street, Stanley watched them, eyes narrowed, thinking deeply. He noted how, old as they appeared, they stood erect, their legs slightly bowed from long days on horseback. Even now, as they left joking and laughing with each other, they exuded a sense of power. It would take a brave or very foolish man to challenge either of them – challenging the two of them together would require insanity.

Stanley caught Jem's eye and gestured him over.

"You want another beer?"

"Just some information."

"I gotta get you another beer or my Pa will have my hide for standing around chatting when I'm supposed to be working."

"Okay, sure another one." While Jem poured the beer, Stanley could hardly restrain his impatience. "Jem, what do you know about those two men who just left?"

"Huh?"

"The two men, the ones that were playing darts."

"Oh, Mr. Hotchkiss and Mr. Rembacker. Real nice old fellas."

"What do they do?"

"Do? Nothing, I guess. They're here most days, drink some whiskey or beer, play a game or two of darts." Jem polished the top of the ornate bar, wandered down to serve some drinks, then wandered back. "You know how you said your boss wanted you to write about the old west?"

"Yeah?"

"Well maybe those two can help you. My Pa told me once to be careful, that they're wanted outlaws. Used to be leaders of one of the most famous gangs in the west though he didn't say which one – said it was better I didn't know. He says Hotchkiss and Rembacker aren't their real names; says they're still wanted. Pa said they were offered amnesty, but something fell through. Folks thought they went to South America for a while, but they must have come back. Says lots of folks in town know about it, but no one cares because they're such nice fellas. Besides, there's no longer any reward and no one would believe those two were still alive." Jem shrugged and wiped the bar before him. "But Pa spins stories sometimes, so I don't know. I can't really believe those two nice old men are wild desperadoes." He laughed. "I mean, how could they be."

Stanley gave a short laugh. "Yeah, pretty hard to believe." He stared at nothing in particular. "Still. You said they come here often?"

Stanley hustled into the saloon and looked around. Not seeing his quarry, he glanced at his watch and sighed impatiently. He'd done his research. No one would tell him just when these two had arrived in town. Some said ten years earlier, some said it was longer ago than that. He'd been told they'd arrived after the great earthquake when a lot of folks left California. Others said it was more recent than that. All he knew was when he searched the local paper's archives the earliest he could find was a society piece noting that Mr. Hotchkiss and Mr. Rembacker had escorted two widowed sisters to a dance in January 1909. Stanley shook his head as he mused.

He had moved on looking up old stories of robbers and gangs. That had been illuminating. While he waited for their arrival, he thought back to what he had read. Surely, they weren't …, they couldn't be. Those two were dead, weren't they, and anyway these men looked older. He considered this last point carefully. Hard life could make you look older than you were, he knew – look at his mother after his father died, leaving them destitute. She'd aged rapidly. If these men were who he hoped, surely their lives had been hard at one time. He'd just have to find out from them.

Stanley considered his remaining funds. Hopefully it would last. He'd already pawned his watch for this. It had taken two days of cajoling to convince the men he could be trusted. Today, today was the day they said they'd tell him about the old days.

Hotchkiss paused outside the saloon. "I don't know about this. Are you sure it's okay to talk to this boy?"

"Kid. Nobody cares about us, and we won't let on who we are anyway. Besides, he wants to hear stories of outlawing and daring do, and we can provide those. We'll tell him a few tales, drink some whiskey on his dime, and that'll be it. Tell him what he wants to hear." He grinned. "Some of it might even be true."

His partner chuckled and pushed open the door, entering first as always to ensure there was no danger.

The grey-haired man took a deep puff of his cigar and blew smoke rings before resuming. "… Ky… Coyote Sam, that is, wasn't too bright, and sometimes he got carried away. He sure did like the explosions. Well, one time he set off so much dynamite that it blew the railcar to smithereens. Remember, Thaddeus, all that was left were a few splinters. Never did find the safe."

Hotchkiss laughed. "But they say it rained money all the way over in Silver City that day. Too bad none of it rained by the tracks. We didn't get a dime. Hey, remember Henry, that poor mail man?"

"Oh yeah." Rembacker paused to finish the glass before him. "Real dedicated Henry was. How many times did we rob him? Every time it took near to half an hour to convince him not to be blown up with the safe."

Stanley's eyes were wide. This was just what he had hoped for. He quickly resumed writing in his notebook.

"Tell him about the bear. I think we got at least ten thousand that time. I like that story. Ten thousand and no one got shot."

Rembacker picked up his empty glass and looked at it. "Well, all this talking is making me thirsty." He looked at Stanley.

Stanley, busy writing everything down in his notebook, didn't notice. Finally, noticing the men had stopped talking, he paused and looked up. "Oh. Sure thing, Mr. Rembacker. Gee, this is great."

Standing and moving over to the bar, Stanley looked around and realized that the shadows had lengthened while he listened. "Jem another round, and do you have a lantern or something, so I can see to keep writing?" He smiled at his friend. "And thanks for telling me about them. This is sure to make Hartley happy."

"Just keep paying and Pa'll be happy. And if Pa's happy I'll be happy. Anyways you don't need a lantern, we have electricity. I'll put it on as soon as it gets dark enough." Jem handed him another bottle and accepted payment.

Jem nodded and rushed back. He filled the two men's glasses and waited impatiently as they knocked them back. Refilling them, he spoke "So, about that bear…"

Rembacker blew a few more smoke rings, while Stanley waited impatiently. Finally, he began. "Hank – one of our gang – told us about this friend of his, Vlad. Raised a bear from a cub. Real fond of that bear Vlad was. Tried to join a circus but that didn't work out. Vlad was always looking for work. Seems it was hard finding a place that would hire him and the bear. Hard to get a place to live, too. That gave me an idea."

"Joshua here is always gettin' ideas. Some are better'n others. This one was a real doozey."

"See there was this gold mine. Got tired of folks robbing the gold trains. Figured, anyone looking to steal the gold would hit the train – after all, they'd been hit several times before." He paused, his dimples showing. "Usually by us." Rembacker sipped the glass before him. "So, they decided to pretend to place its haul on the train as usual, but instead send it by wagon. Thought they were so smart. What they didn't know though is one of his men was on our payroll too. See, boy, that's what you get when you treat your employees badly. We were real good to our gang, and they knew it. Not so much the mine manager, lots of bad blood between the manager and the miners."

"Anyway, the wagon goes along just as expected, only one guard with the driver because it wasn't supposed to look like it was carrying anything valuable. They ride on for a few hours and nothing happens so the two men are feeling pretty cheerful and pretty relaxed, not really paying much attention. They drive through a wooded area and round a bend. Suddenly this bear steps into the track. That bear is huge and its standing on its hind legs roaring. The guard scrambles for the shotgun, because a six-shooter isn't much help against an angry bear. The problem is, he keeps dropping it in his haste. Finally, he gets ahold of it only to have my partner here shoot and knock the gun right out of his hands again."

The two men start laughing. "Well the bear didn't like that much. He rears up again. At that point the shotgun falls off the wagon and goes off. Blew a hole right in the side of the wagon. The mules hauling the wagon already didn't like the bear and that noise just about drove them crazy. That driver and guard took one more look at the bear, then at the gang on the side of the trail. Well that bear lets out a fearsome roar and those two men dive off back of wagon and run back down the track as fast as they can. Meanwhile, poor Billy – the bear – it turns out is afraid of loud noises, and he runs the other way, right through our men. By the time they get their horses under control, all we can see is Vlad running down the road one way chasing his bear and the wagon sitting there just waiting for us." He smirked and shook his head. "As Thaddeus said, we got ten thousand that day. Never did hear how the driver explained what happened to the wagon."

Stanley paused in his writing. "What did happen to the wagon?"

"Gold's heavy son," said Hotchkiss. "We took the wagon with us, even if it did have a hole in it."

Stanley's mouth fell open before he, too, began laughing.

Rembacker tossed back the last of his glass and planted the empty on the table. He pulled out his watch and checked the time. "Thanks for the drinks, son. Been good telling tales. Of course, you could never prove anything we said was true." He smiled at Stanley.

"Yeah, and you've sworn you won't be usin' our names. Course you don't know our real names, and we ain't about to tell you. Remember though, you go back on your word and things could go badly for you." The blue eyes in the worn face turned to ice as he spoke.

Stanley shivered. "No, no. I won't," he swore again.

"Come on, Kid, let's get some supper. It's Widow Grafton's turn to feed us and you know you like her cooking."

Stanley's eyes widened. Kid! That proved it; he was right.

As the two men stood to leave, he gathered his courage. "Just one more question. I promise I won't include it in my story or tell anyone what you tell me."

The two looked down at him with faces devoid of any expression. "What?"

"How did you make it out of Bolivia?"

The two exchanged astonished glances. Finally, dark eyes glowing and deep dimples showing, Rembacker said, "Well son, that is one story we will never tell. No one would believe it anyway."

Hotchkiss laughed. "Yeah, we'll carry the details to our graves."

His partner clapped him on the back. "You said it, Kid." The two grinned and walked out the door.

Stanley swallowed. He stared around the saloon, not noticing the glow of the lights. He had the story of the century. Tonight, he'd send a short telegram before his train home tomorrow – just enough to let them know he had his story. Old Hartley would have to respect him now. Heck, he'd probably greet him with a brass band and fireworks. After all, how many journalists could swear that Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid were still alive and living in Oregon?

 **Author's note:** Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid are believed to have died in a shoot out in Bolivia in 1908. Nonetheless, there have long been rumors that Butch Cassidy at least survived. In 2011, a biography by William T. Phillips, _Bandit Invincible: The Story of Butch Cassidy_ , was discovered. According to this account, Butch Cassidy survived, got plastic surgery in France and settled down in Washington state. Some also believe that William T. Phillips was the alias that Butch Cassidy took upon his return to the U.S. Also, Butch Cassidy's sister claimed in her biography of the man that he attended a family reunion in 1925 and died in 1937 in Washington state. Recent DNA testing of the bodies that were believed to be Cassidy and Sundance in Bolivia found no genetic match to the two, although it is quite possible the bodies were buried elsewhere after the fight.


End file.
